Deana: And the "poor"ing has started. Lol. *shakes head* Sorry. Here is more.
Bill the Pony: Well yes something evil is going to happen. What would I do if there wasn't anything evil about to happen? *looks incredulous* I'm glad for both. I get to feel all warm and fuzzy inside when I get your reviews. *g*
Grumpy: What's everyone's fascination with sacrificing people to a volcano? *looks bemused* Halloween . . . I have to volunteer, but candy is good. Very good. Em, not a candle. A hint . . . Looking from the beginning (meaning False Reality), two people put it in his pack. Glad you enjoyed the pot holder. Make sure you give it back to him. Lol. *looks sheepish* Sorry, couldn't resist. I'll resist commenting on waiting. *g* It would be cruel to do that to you twice in a row. lol. Enjoy.
NaughtyNat: I'm glad, too. *smiles brightly* And you were right. *scans back through memory* When did I say scrupulous? Oh. Um, clean. I think. At least, that's the general idea of the word. Kids are brats (no offense to kids), but I have too much experience with me to want to repeat it. *g* And I did have fun. I love dancing. That makes two (that liked the scene with Elrond, I mean). Hehe. The "fine" thing is a point of amusement for me. I can't leave it out. I can't. That never mind paragraph was fun. lol. *looks startled* Who said I was going to make Aragorn feel better? I didn't agree to that.
*g* Okay, now read. I cannot comment any more until you've read and reviewed and made me oh-so-happy. And I need it, me and my mom. . . . Grrrrrrr. Were I not a good daughter, not an orc, and determined not to break the law, I could consider happy ripping off her head right now. (Know I had to say it, it's not good to keep such things bottled up inside, after all. *g*) Oh, and I'm sorry in advance if the ending is a bit abrupt. I'm make it up to you later. Promise. *g*
Now, enjoy!
Chapter 10
Rest for the Weary
It was dark. That, in and of itself, was not unusual. It was the quality of the dark that halted his footsteps
Mere moments ago he had been walking through the forests of Mirkwood, the trees just visible as darker forms against the already dark surroundings, as he carried the unmoving prince of Mirkwood in his arms. Guilt and numb fear kept him moving despite the fatigue that pulled on him, whispering to him that he needed to stop. He dared not stop, for he knew if he did, Legolas would die.
Now, though, the forest was different, darker, a shadow lying over it that obscured even the hint of trees, overwhelming the smell of their boughs, blocking out the noises of scuttling spiders and other creatures that roamed the woods at night, causing any travelers unfortunate enough to be caught in the shadows of Mirkwood at night to become mighty familiar with paranoia.
He could not see, which gave him pause, and he could not hear other creatures around him, which worried him, but it was the absence of his very own footsteps, which he knew were still there, to halt him. Not yet panicking, he looked around, his silver eyes not visible in the black void that seemed to surround him.
Thinking to see if his charge could help him, since he remembered talking to him recently, he glanced down to the figure held gently in his arms, only to feel panic, heart-stopping, mind-numbing, thought-shattering panic grip him and cement his feet to the floor, unable to move if his life had depended on it.
Legolas was gone.
He looked around, panic building with each passing second, a thing he would have thought impossible had it not been happening to him that very moment. Nothing was around him, nothing touched his senses; Legolas was nowhere in sight.
His breathing fast and harsh to his own ears, his heart pounding against his chest as if seeking to escape and take flight, he forced himself to stillness. Tears were threatening, as were whimpers that desired to escape his throat, releasing sounds he feared would doom him.
There was something he was supposed to see, something he did not want to find him, and sound on his part would lead it to him quicker. His body trembled, fear for his friend warring with fear of the threat unknown which nevertheless he knew. He feared to find, but had to look.
A whimper passed his lips without his consent and he tried to take a step forward. If he moved, he could not stay for nothing in his vision changed. His surroundings were still blank blackness without a hint of light.
Then a clash, like the ringing of metal, sharp, echoing, shattered the silence. A shuffle of feet moving quickly, rocks clattering briefly. Harsh breath, fast, overshadowing his own, overwhelming it. Another scuffling, slithering sound; then the ringing of metal. A grunt of satisfaction or . . . pain?
Ice fingers skittered up his spine, his body trembled.
The sounds came to him, each known but implacable to his mind, having no meaning in his scattered thoughts; a collection of random sounds that he felt should have meaning, a meaning that sent shivers down his spine.
Yet another clash, harsh and unyielding. Firm impact against stone, a thud. Scattering, slithering, leaves, breath, clash, clang, the sounds came faster, repeating at odd intervals, occasionally joined by a new sound or two, but then gone.
Still he knew not what it was, and still the feeling of familiarity grew, speaking of something long known to his mind and heart but out of his grasp, lost to him even as it slithered around him.
His eyes narrowed as his mind struggled for realization, grasping futilely at a notion that hung just out of reach, taunted with the prospect of attaining the unattainable which nevertheless seemed to be close enough if one could just reach a hair further. . . .
Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, forming a solid knot of lead that seemed to grow heavier and heavier, pulling him down, stealing his strength. Something bad was about to happen, something he had known, had understood was inevitable, but wished with all his heart to avoid, something his mind refused to focus on.
The fact that his own mind refused to cooperate did not deter him, though, and he continued his attempts to grasp that elusive knowledge which danced just out of reach and yet, for all that, still seemed to desire to be caught. . . .
Then the world spun. Or seemed to, a singularly perturbing feeling as there was no world to spin, yet did. Aragorn caught his breath as he felt he was falling, stiffening reflexively against the lack of security as fear shot through him though he knew there was nowhere to fall to, just as there was nowhere to fall from.
When everything returned to normal (or at least as normal as he thought it would get), the ranger tried to look around. A completely worthless exercise in a pitch black void, admittedly, but a habit he had long since grown accustomed to just the same, and not one he was particularly anxious to break simply because he found himself currently in limbo.
His surprise, then, was palpable when he looked around him and saw someone else occupying this abyss, two some ones. In the distance, too far for him to make out, were two figures, both tall, though one was light while the other was dark. One was lithe while the other was stocky. They seemed to be moving in their own world, unaware of their surroundings (not that there was much to be aware of, but the notion was so fully ingrained into the Dúnadan's responses that he noted it without thought of the bleakness of the surroundings they shared).
The two figures drew him, tempting him closer. He tried to move closer, found he could not, and noticed both figures grew larger, their movements bringing them closer to him in any case. Now, he could indeed see they moved: arms, legs; a complicated dance that held deadly intent.
As they came closer, the sounds started to click into place. One-by-one, he identified what he had heard earlier against their movements. The clash of swords as one swung for the other and was blocked. Feet moving across the ground as the combatants moved around each other trying to gain the upper hand, breath harsh from their exertions whistling in and out. A veritable cacophony of sounds, steady, constant, except when it was interrupted by a grunt of pain or a thud or some other sound which as of yet did not belong in the tapestry of movements being woven before him.
Mesmerized, he stared, able and wanting to do nothing but watch, absorbed, his prior concern for the disappearance of his friend all but forgotten and far too distant to find any hold over him.
Slowly, the light figure became clearer even as the dark figure grew more obscured. Golden hair flowed behind as the lithe figure moved and turned, blocking and evading every blow. The clothes this being wore also gained resolution: a moss-green overtunic covered the long sleeved light gray tunic he wore underneath, dark gray leggings ending in soft, supple, dark brown boots. He came closer--or the fighters did--and he saw the belt secured around the being's waist, the quiver strapped to his back, the knives in his hands, the gauntlets secured around his wrists.
In his heart, Aragorn knew what his mind had yet to register, and apprehension, previously forgotten, curled up his spine, forcing him to shift. He noted the double braids holding back the fair being's golden hair, the intricate elvish designs on quiver and knives, the graceful, pointed ears of the Eldar. Abandoning his spine, the fear crept over to his heart and his lungs, squeezing so as to deny him air.
The combatants again shifted, and he caught his first glimpse of the fair being's face. Blue eyes burned into his own for a fraction of a second, an eternity, and then they were obscured again. A dark feeling, a dread certainty settled over his heart and mind, telling him that nothing good would come of this battle, screaming at him that his friend would die, that he had to stop this before. . . . The end would be upon him soon, one way or another.
Aragorn struggled, desperately attempting to move closer. He tried to scream, to distract his friend's opponent. . . . All to no avail. No sound issued from his mouth and his struggles only served to take him further away, though never far enough to remove sight of his friend. Despair pulled at his thoughts, unbearable pain.
He watched Legolas stumble, saw him drop his guard, a repeat of an event fresh in his mind, mesmerized as the dark blade of his friend's opponent--horribly familiar but unknown--sunk deeply into the other's flesh. He heard the shocked gasp of pain, of denial, as icy tendrils grabbed hold of his shoul to lead towards death.
The ranger's numb gaze traveled from the sword buried in the elf's body, to the shocked pain-filled eyes of his friend, to follow Legolas' gaze and take in the dark figure standing over him. Even now he could not make out the attacker's face, not even well enough to know his species, but a malevolent smile could be seen through the shadow that cloaked the foul being, a smirk of glee for felling that which he could never become, and extinguishing an immortal life.
Anguish froze Aragorn, held him in place, unable to move. Then the Shadow's eyes turned on him, holding him prisoner, unable to look away, unable to gather enough strength to rise and go to his friend, offer aide or comfort if that was all he had left to give . . . unable to say good-bye.
Darkness closed in around him. He could not move, could not breath. His vision darkened, threatening to eliminate all that was around him, life. But it did not blur completely.
He saw Legolas collapse, saw him sink to his knees as his legs refused to hold his weight. The man's eyes were drawn to those of his friend, those eyes which would soon close forever, and his heart chilled at what he saw there.
Betrayal. Heart-ache. Misery and a loss of hope so profound he could hardly believe it was his friend.
Then the body sunk to the floor, unmoving, a broken lump of flesh in a sea of black, his light and spirit fled from this world, never to be seen again. Anger burned in him, pain of a kind he had never felt before. Anguished eyes turned on his friend's murderer.
He struggled to his feet, unsure when he had fallen to his knees, fire burning in his eyes, though he knew not what he planned to do. The wraith looked at him, unperturbed by the threat in the man's eyes, a smile on his face.
Slowly, the being reached up with one hand, moving to the hood that concealed his features. Slowly, ever so slowly, the dark cloth fell back, revealing a face Aragorn had never thought to see, a face that could only be a nightmare, and yet stood before him, solid, unwavering, in all its gruesome truth. Dark hair, intense eyes. Familiar.
He knew who had killed Legolas.
And he screamed.
~*~
Aragorn's scream ripped through the air, jerking Legolas from a sound sleep. Pain shot through the elf as he automatically moved to aid his friend and paid no mind to his injuries, breath-stealing pain, and he collapsed back onto the cot.
From his once again horizontal position, he turned to look at the ranger and found him half-way across the shack, back pressed against the wall, scrabbling madly to get further away, his hands scratching at the wall, heedless of the scrapes he was inflicting upon himself and the blood he was leaving behind.
It was his eyes, though, that chilled the prince's blood. Horror-filled, they were nevertheless empty. Pain, denial, loss, all swirled in their depths. Legolas knew the ranger was aware of nothing around him, lost in whatever danced before his eyes, created by his mind.
Silently, the fair being cursed. He knew Aragorn had been having nightmares! He had known the ranger felt guilty, had known and had done nothing. Now his friend suffered needlessly, and if Legolas did not act soon, the human would hurt himself in his delirium.
The elf twisted and rolled off the cot, switching directions as subtly as possible to keep from pulling on his wounds. Once on the ground, he crept forward, approaching the human warily. He had no idea what distressed the man so and, having already been on the receiving end of delirious terror induced actions, had no desire to be clouted because his identity was mistaken.
"Aragorn," he called softly from a few feet away. "Aragorn."
The other's attempts to escape never flagged, his hands still destructively clawing behind him. "No," Aragorn whispered, voice hoarse, terrified disbelief choking the word. His feet kicked uselessly at the ground, sliding as he had no where left to go. The ranger's face contorted and his hands crept towards it, smearing blood across his skin and up into his hair in restless agitation. They crept back down, and Legolas watched as the man's fingers curled, bringing his fingernails down his skin, scratching himself, too far away to stop the human.
He leapt forward just the same and grabbed the man's wrists, but not before gashes had been dug across the other's face. How bad, he could not tell for the blood from his fingers, but he did not like it just the same.
"Estel," he called, switching to elvish automatically in his desire to soothe his friend. "Wake up, my friend. Do not let the shadows claim you, there is nothing to fear. Estel!"
A groan was the only response, and Aragorn whipped his head from side to side, clipping his head firmly against the wall. His eyes rolled in his head and much of the tension left his body, but he never left consciousness, remaining stuck in his tortured dreams.
Legolas pulled his friend away from the wall. His hand gripped the other's arm, momentarily forgetting the injuries Aragorn had sustained from the wolves. He remembered suddenly as the other cried out, body arcing against the pain before collapsing to the floor.
"Strider!" he cried in horror, his eyes widening as he realized what he had done, unsure how bad it was. "Strider, answer me!"
Dazed eyes gazed back at him, not fully cognizant of their surroundings. If nothing else, the pain had drawn him from the nightmare. The elf moved forward nearer his head and placed a gentle hand on his chest before leaning down to get a better look into the human's eyes. "Mellon nin, can you hear me?"
The other's breathing was labored, his skin slicked with a layer of sweat which beaded on his forehead and upper lip. Silver eyes wandered aimless around the room without coming to focus on anything.
"Aragorn! Please, answer me!" he insisted. "You're safe now, my friend. Come back."
Slowly, the words seemed to penetrate whatever shadows hung over the Dúnadan, and the other's eyes finally began to focus on the figure hovering above him. Legolas waited apprehensively as he watched the change, anxious to know his friend was truly well, his blue eyes searching those that stared back at him, unreadable.
"Legolas?" Aragorn's voice was nearly unrecognizable but the response was welcome.
The elf breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes, mellon nin, it is I." He ran his fingers gently through the other's hair in a soothing way, but was not completely sure if it was him or the ranger he was hoping to calm most. "You are safe."
The last did not seem to register as the other's eyes had gone distant after the affirmation of identity. Straining even his elven hearing, Legolas caught, "You are alive."
The elf prince frowned, trailing his hand down to rest on the other's chest. "Strider? What's wrong?"
Silver eyes refocused on him, and he was alarmed at the guilt he found there, the pain. "I'm sorry, Legolas. I'm so sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Aragorn. I'm here. I'm alive. You did nothing wrong."
Aragorn's hand came up to where Legolas' hand rested on his chest, wrapping tightly around the elf's wrist as a choked cry escaped the man's lips. "I'm so sorry," he continued, apparently ignoring his friend's words. "You shouldn't be here, shouldn't stay with me." A shuddering breath was drawn into spasming lungs. "I'll just get you killed. I'll kill you."
"What are you talking about?" Legolas demanded, confusion threatening to swallow him whole and his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the human's words. "We're friends, Aragorn. You would never hurt me, just as I would never hurt you."
The grip on his wrist tightened incredibly as that response only seemed to agitate the man further. "No! You don't understand! I know, I know. . . . If you stay, I will kill you. I have seen. . . ." His head turned and another choked sob worked its way past his defenses. "You endanger yourself by staying near me. Even Elladan and Elrohir think so. Ada thinks so. He said so."
"Stop this!" Legolas exclaimed in horror. "Stop this talk! It's not true! I know it's not true! None of it, do you hear me, Estel! None of it's true! You are my friend, Estel. I know you, and I know you would never hurt anyone unless you had to. The Shadows lie. Don't listen to them, listen to me." He paused, noting the other's expression. "Please, Estel," he pleaded. "Trust me. I need you to trust me."
For a moment he thought the human would keep arguing, instead, the fight and tension drained out of him. After a miserable nod, Legolas helped Aragorn sit up. "Do you want to talk about it?" he offered.
Wordlessly, the young man shook his head. The elf looked at him, then moved over to the fire and added more wood, stirring the embers until it flared to vibrant life once more. He set some water on to boil, and watched as Aragorn moved up beside him, looking far older than his meager years, even for a human. And his eyes, eyes that were normally a brilliant silver, were now a dull, lifeless gray, devoid of any spark of life or happiness, his irrepressible spirit vanished to different shores.
Legolas took a deep breath, then let it out in a slow hiss. Whatever the young man had seen in his dreams, it was eating at him terribly, leaving behind an empty husk. The elf did not like the change in his friend at all.
He frowned slightly as he watched Aragorn stare listlessly into the fire, the flicker of the flames casting odd shadows across his face. He knew the ranger's family would never have said such things to the young man, so he could not fathom where the other could have gotten them. Yes, they jested from time to time about the amount of trouble they got in to together, but Aragorn knew they were jokes and in no way serious.
Neither spoke as Legolas prepared the tea. Legolas knew not what to say, and Aragorn seemed to have lost himself once more in silent contemplation. The elf wanted nothing more than to draw the young man out, but he had no idea how to do it.
Once the tea was ready, he pulled out two mugs and poured the hot liquid into them. He offered one to Aragorn, and was pleased when the other pulled himself out of his thoughts enough to take the mug and offer a small smile of thanks before returning his gaze to the fire.
Turning his own attention to the flames, Legolas desperately searched for something to say, something to start a conversation and glean some information from his friend. He fingered the cup, agitated, then brought it to his lips and took a small sip, the hot liquid racing down his throat to pool in his stomach. Thankfully, the heat helped to soothe his nerves.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched his friend take a similar sip, some of the tension leaving his posture as it, too, served to calm his nerves. The man took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. Then, unexpectedly, he spoke.
"The last time I sat in front of a fire to drink tea was with Kalya, just before our journey through the tunnels of the Misty Mountains, in a cave, of sorts. I would have liked for you to meet her. You would have liked each other, I think, but she refused to come to Rivendell, and simply disappeared. I have no idea if she is even well." His voice was low, contemplative, and his gaze never moved from the fire.
Legolas did not mind. "Why did she leave?"
A slight huh which could have been a laugh lifted the other's shoulders, and his amusement was more detectable in his voice than on his face. "I suspect," he said, "that she was afraid of my brothers."
The elf chuckled softly, easily acknowledging the likelihood of that observation. The twins were not exactly pleasant in matters that concerned Aragorn, and having been made well aware of the situation earlier, he thought that a fair guess.
"Had I been in her shoes, I likely would have done the same thing," the young man mused.
"What would she have done in yours?" the elf asked, not particularly sure why he asked.
Gray eyes lifted to stare into his own, but the man did not answer immediately. Legolas waited with the patience of the Eldar, merely returning the stare. The ranger blinked, then finally spoke. "I think, she would not still suffer from dreams as I do." His gaze returned to the fire.
"Do not put yourself down so, Aragorn. You are one of the strongest Men I know," Legolas stated.
He got a quick sideways glance at that, then, "Legolas, I'm one of the only Men you know."
The elf prince smiled and looked away. "Still. It is difficult sometimes to remember that you are a Man and not an Elf, and that, I know, can be said about very few who are not Eldar."
Aragorn sighed and looked down at the cup that was clasped in his hands. "I think your faith is misplace, my friend."
"This is about the dream." A miserable nod. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"I cannot, Legolas. Not now."
The elf nodded, then cocked his head to the side. "You should sleep."
A mirthless laugh followed this pronouncement, and the human shook his head. "I could not go back to sleep."
"Try," Legolas insisted. "For me. Please. I need to rest, also, and I shall not be able to do it if I am worried that you are brooding."
The ranger glanced sharply at him, resignation chasing shock and amusement across his face. "Very well."
Legolas nodded, then rose gracefully and pulled his stuff onto the floor next to the ranger's. Confused gray eyes watched his preparations. "What are you doing?" Aragorn asked.
"Moving my stuff."
"You should sleep on the cot, Legolas," the ranger argued. "It's more comfortable."
The elf prince shook his head. "I sleep in trees, Aragorn. You need not worry about my comfort, and I shall sleep considerably better if my presence manages to ease your sleep as well." He smiled gently.
With a long-suffering sigh, Aragorn crawled over and collapsed beside the elf, turning so he lay on his right side, his eyes watching the shadows cast on the wall by the fire, hypnotizing him. Legolas smiled slightly, then eased himself down near him and scooted back so their shoulders touched, a reminder that the other was near. The elf was surprised when, almost immediately, the other relaxed and fell asleep.
Legolas soon followed, his eyes half-lidded in elven sleep.